war
The war on laundry
fought with soap and dryer sheets,
is an endless war.
The unfolded clean pile refuses to budge. (Like the out-of-power political party waiting to regain the House or Senate.)
The wet clothes remain hunkered down in the washer. (Like the Taliban planning next Spring’s offensive after the snow melts.)
How does it happen? When did my clothes stop marching independently through the cycle of ‘wear-wash-dry-fold-wear’?
When did ALL of my shorts, and pants, and shirts organize this “sit in” that occupies my bedroom floor, and stops me from crossing to pull closed the blinds?
And for that matter, where did the time go, and what did I do while I wore all those clothes, some laying there crumpled, wrinkled, or perspired, some food and wine stained, and others apparently dropped in haste or fatigue?
And now, the relentless bake of Summer’s heat waits for me each day; firing the sun’s late-day rays through that un-shaded western window.
(I think actually it was a bottom-up, grassroots rebellion, and so I mostly blame my socks.)
Missed Connections are filled with good, bad, and laundry-day-haiku. Did you write one? Did you find one? Before you hit the spin cycle, be sure to email the link to Lovelorn Poets! We’ll preserve those wash-n-wear-syllables for all eternity (no ironing required).
